


Tilt me over, hold you there

by Rehlia



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Ambiguous Relationships, Collars, Coping, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Other, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, can be read as fellcest or platonic, fell verse bullshit, nonverbal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:10:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15581700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehlia/pseuds/Rehlia
Summary: Sometimes Edge needs a break, and then Red is there for him.





	Tilt me over, hold you there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tealmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealmoon/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Tealmoon! I saw that it's your birthday today so I wanted to write you something. I have no idea if this is to your tastes, I tried to model it a little after some of your fics depicting nonsexual kink exploration and coping, but I don't have a lot of experience writing fics for people's birthdays so I'm not sure. I just hope you like it :3

The collar closes around his neck with a gentle sort of finality. 

“This okay?” Red’s voice is low, gentle and rumbling, soothing. 

Edge merely nods his head. That’s good enough; he doesn’t need to talk and the fact that he doesn’t is another source of comfort. 

“Remember your safeword. Your signal,” Red instructs him. Edge nods again. He does. He can tap out whenever he wants to. 

He doesn’t want to. 

The weight of the collar feels calming, a symbol of submission and freedom. It seems like a contradiction but it’s not. 

There is a lot of freedom in not having to be in control. 

To have a break. 

It usually doesn’t bother him. He likes control, he likes taking the lead between him and his brother. The collar that Red wears nearly constantly is more than proof enough of that, showing who’s the boss in this house. (Showing that, should anyone dare to lay a finger on his brother, there would be hell to pay.) The collar is one he had specifically made for Red, smooth red leather with golden studs to match his gold tooth, and a tag proclaiming his ownership over his brother. (Proclaiming his protection, his love.) The fact that this collar fits Edge just as easily - well. That wasn’t something anyone else would ever learn about, but it was definitely something he had planned for back when he purchased it. 

It’s a complete switch of their usual roles. 

Red went along with it easily, too, the first time as he does today. He understands. Maybe better than anyone else might have. 

“Get up,” Red tells him. Edge obeys. He moves differently than he normally would, not wearing his armour or any of his leather clothes. He’s in a simple black shirt and a pair of loose workout pants today, soft fabric that sits comfortably on his bones. Not too constricting. Easy to move in. 

Divorced from who he normally is. 

“So, I figure you can start by makin’ dinner,” Red commands, ambling over to the sofa to get comfy there. He throws a glance at the window but the curtains remain tightly drawn, just like they should be for this. Nobody would be able to look inside. “I’m in the mood for that roast with the mustard crust.”

Edge knows exactly which recipe Red is talking about. Nothing too demanding, but involved enough to need concentration. He obediently moves into the kitchen, feeling Red’s eye lights on his back. He doesn’t follow though. Trusting Edge. 

Trusting him to be good, to follow, to submit to his command, to do nothing but what has been asked. 

Some of the tension in his spine eases. 

He quickly gathers the ingredients and gets to work, preparing the soy based roast, rubbing it in a marinade of spices and mustard to enhance the flavour, preparing the potato slices for the side dish. As soon as the whole affair is in the oven, he can set a timer and leave it to itself for a bit. He uses the time to clean the kitchen, thoroughly scrubbing the counters. Afterwards, there’s still some time left, so he wanders back into the living room, coming to a stand in front of his brother with his head bowed. 

“All done?” 

Edge waves his hand a little. It’s not a sign in any language, merely a gesture, but it’s enough. 

“Still bakin’ for a bit but almost ready? Nice. I don’t feel like gettin’ up so no need to set the table. Just put it all on a tray ‘n bring it here. Oh, and fetch me a drink while you’re at it.”

Edge nods once more and turns to follow the order. The cold air of the refrigerator feels pleasant against his bones; the slick condensation on the bottle against his bare phalanges, the clink and hiss as he opens the bottle for his brother. He could wipe the bottle down to make it easier to grip, but he doesn’t. He knows Red enjoys having the wetness there, a reminder that the drink is fresh. 

He brings the drink over and hands it to Red wordlessly, who takes it without another word. Edge relaxes fractionally, piece by little piece in the silence.

There’s no thanks, no please, no polite niceties between them right now. They’re not needed and not welcome.

Using them creates social pressure to reply, and that’s… 

Edge has no words right now. 

It’s one of those days where the Underground has worn him down, has taken his energy and strength and drive, his secret hopes and dreams of fairness and kindness and popularity, and ruthlessly shredded them apart. One of the days where too much dust in the air has clogged up his nonexistent throat and left him voiceless, painfully dry of things to say. His skull is too filled up with images he didn’t want to see and doesn’t want to remember - scenes that he needs to purge before they consume him. 

The collar helps. 

He’s nothing while he wears it. Only a random servant existing to please someone else. There’s no requirement for him to speak, because a servant should be quiet and unobtrusive. There’s no need for him to think either, all decisions made by the one who put the collar on him, and so his mind blanks, a grand whiteness overtaking him that bleaches the remainders of the day out of him. 

Until he’s left with nothing but himself again, later, when they’ve eaten and he’s done the dishes and rearranged some furniture at Red’s command, when they’ve been sitting on the couch together for a while looking at nothing while enjoying that they’re in each other’s presence. 

They don't hug, or cuddle. Nothing quite so intimate, nothing quite so sentimental. But Edge reaches over to Red, briefly squeezing his shoulder. Red lifts a lazy hand up to the collar and rests it there, combining the weight of his bones with the weight of the leather band. And that’s more than enough. They don’t need words. They understand each other perfectly well without them. 

‘Thank you.’

‘Any time.’


End file.
